


a fragile little flame

by outlaw_queened



Category: Once Upon a Time RPF
Genre: A Character Arc, F/F, RPF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-12-21 05:50:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11937663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outlaw_queened/pseuds/outlaw_queened
Summary: Her last tweet is crossposted from Instagram– a selfie from set yesterday, Lana beside one of her new costars with beaming smiles on their faces, and Jen swallows past the lump in her throat and hits the button to like the picture.Her phone rings precisely twenty minutes later. “What’s going on?” Lana demands. “What are you up to?”“I’m not allowed to like a post on Instagram now?” Jen says, forcing her voice to remain even.Lana snorts. “You’ve liked posts fromSeanbefore you’ve liked any from me. What’s your game, Morrison?” Her voice falters somewhere aroundgameand Jen wonders again about hard, thoughtful eyes, and the night when it had seemed possible that this thing they have might matter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for dearest ******, who celebrates a birthday right around now. this story has spiraled, and i am embarrassed, and also thoroughly enjoying myself, and i shall update as i edit/write. there's about 13k of this already, so lots to come!

Jen isn’t expecting to see Lana at the con. They’d carefully avoided each other at the last few, made sure they wouldn’t be present on the same days and kept it completely, carefully casual. No one is second-guessing their decisions, she’s fairly confident. Maybe Lana’s SwanQueens, but they’ve never  _ stopped _ , so–

 

So.

 

So it comes as a surprise when Jen is making her getaway from the last event of the con and there’s a rumble outside, cries of  _ Lana! Lana! _ and calls from security. Jen is safely ensconced in one of the green rooms for con guests, standing beside Colin and making awkward conversation as though they have anything to do with each other anymore, and she shrinks back automatically just at the sound of the crowd. 

 

And then shifts forward, because Lana. 

 

They hadn’t seen each other during Jen’s last episode, and Jen had thought that an odd coincidence until she’d noticed, just a week later, that Lana had unfollowed her on Twitter. And then followed her again. Probably because of this con and the next, and Lana doesn’t seem all that interested in confrontation with her anymore.

 

Lana’s given up on her. She knows it consciously and it hurts somewhere where she doesn’t dare look at it for what it is, and so it’s a surprise that Lana would even deign to be in the same place as she is for a few hours.

 

Maybe it’s only because Lana’s won.

 

She curls her fingers into her fists and uncurls them, rubbing a finger and thumb together in unstated anxiety as the door opens and security enters, Lana still poking her head out to wave at the fans as she walks in. “They’re energetic,” she says to her handler.

 

“They really don’t like that I’m only here for the day,” Colin says. It’s meant to be a joke, probably, but it comes out drenched in ego. There have been a lot of jokes like that today, where Jen has laughed and bitten back what could have been a sharp response to anyone else. But Colin had won, too, and maybe he deserves his arrogance against Jen.

 

Against Lana, though, it’s laughable and a little embarrassing. Jen can feel her cheeks flame as Lana turns to Colin, her eyebrow raised in disdain, and her laugh is unfriendly but light enough that Colin won’t register that. Jen can feel her own laugh bubbling up by instinct– or hysteria, she isn’t sure– and it emerges as another embarrassment.

 

It’s also enough for Lana to turn, her smile fading from her face as she sees Jen is standing there. “Oh,” she says, in a tone that makes it clear that she had forgotten that Jen would be attending this con today. “Hello.” 

 

Colin gets a hug. Everyone in the green room gets a hug, except for Jen, who stands in the middle of the room with her thumb rubbing her finger and humiliation burning her face. She has to get  _ out  _ of here,  _ now _ , before Lana is holding court and she does something stupid.

 

She makes a beeline for the bathroom, calls an Uber to the airport and then cancels it. Her flight is in three hours, and she’s going to leave soon anyway, but she–

 

–she shuts her eyes and inhales, then exhales. When she opens her eyes, Lana is standing behind her.

 

Her reflection in the mirror is cold, distant. She’s watching Jen, but it’s without a modicum of interest, and Jen flinches under her gaze and thinks–  _ she won, what does she want _ – 

 

She can feel her temper rising, the urge to say something she’ll regret. It emerges in a rush– “So, that was a short-lived unfollow.”– and Lana cocks her head and twists her lips in a look not unlike the one she’d directed at Colin minutes ago.

 

“It was an accident,” she says, holding up one exquisite finger that Jen knows intimately. “Fat fingers, you know.” She laughs. Her fake laugh is  _ good _ , so much better than Jen’s. Jen has envied it for as long as she’s been able to recognize it. “When are you heading to the airport?” she inquires.

 

There’s nothing like Lana wanting her gone to really raise Jen’s hackles. “I don’t know,” she says, giving her a careless shrug. “I was thinking about staying a few days. Haven’t spent time in Frisco in ages.” 

 

Lana sighs, the mask of lightness fading from her face. “Don’t do this, Jen,” she says. Gone are the nicknames, the in-jokes, the sly reminders that they might not be friends, but they’re  _ something _ . Instead there’s just Lana at a bathroom window, her face worn and tired as though Jen has robbed her of her vitality. “Go home. You don’t want to be here.” 

 

“You don’t know what I want,” Jen shoots back. 

 

It’s the wrong thing to say. It recalls too many other arguments between them, and Lana lifts her chin and says, “No, I think I do.” 

 

“You don’t get to play the victim,” Jen says, her teeth grinding together. “You  _ won _ .” Lana is the adored star of Jen’s show, darling of her fans and of the networks, and Jen is going to cons and playing Colin’s arm candy just to make enough money to direct something that might let her break into the mainstream. Whatever had gone on between them, Lana is no victim.

 

But Lana is watching her with a disquieting understanding on her face– understanding coupled with disgust, as though she knows exactly what Jen means and it pisses her off. “I was ready to leave my  _ husband  _ for you,” Lana bites out. “And you were too much of a coward to even acknowledge my existence outside of our…” She wiggles her fingers. “Our dirty little affair,” she finishes, and with four words, they’re reduced to just that.

 

And Jen, who’s never been any good at words when they aren’t practiced, written across pages and edited and drafted until she’s rethinking every one of them, only manages a sullen, “You two seem pretty cozy now.” She sees them all over Facebook, too many pictures as though they have something to prove. Unfriending Lana would be an act of… _ something _ , as much as unfollowing on Twitter had been, and Jen isn’t the one to do those.

 

Because she’s a  _ coward _ , according to Lana, whose eyes have darkened as she turns away. “Go home, Jen,” she says again, and she walks to the mirror and pulls out her bag. She hasn’t made real eye contact with Jen once.

 

* * *

 

Jen doesn’t go home. She misses her flight and spends a day wandering San Francisco, her thoughts dark and troubled. They always are when she sees Lana. Maybe Lana had been part of the reason why she’d refused to fold during contract negotiations. Maybe she’d wanted to lose, wanted to be  _ away _ , wanted to–

 

No. If Lana had been part of the reason, it had been only because Lana’s successes had highlighted Jen’s own failures. Lana had flourished where they’d both been tied down. Jen’s felt chained for years, trapped in a slow descent to defeat at what should have been her moment.

 

She remembers, for an instant, Lana’s eyes dark as she crouches over her, teeth grazing Jen’s jaw.  _ Maybe it’s time to stop dwelling on what should have been and start dwelling on what is _ , and Jen sobs and begs and does everything she’d never done before Lana. 

 

She keeps glancing at Twitter, at Instagram, and no hint is given as to how Lana’s con day is going. Her own had been…uneventful, which is all she’d really wanted it to be. Polite conversation, no demands of her by Lana’s fans, new fans who’d suddenly become passionate advocates with her departure from the show. She gets a few  _ you changed my life _ fans. Not as many as she’d gotten in Paris years ago, but they’re nice to hear, even if she’s inclined to disbelieve them all nowadays.

 

Paris had been overwhelming and a PR disaster before it had started, but back then, she’d still believed that she’d mattered.

 

She grits her teeth, Lana’s voice back in her head.  _ Self-pity isn’t attractive, Morrison. _ But it had been back during early Season Five and she’d been curled up beside her in her trailer that day, running her fingers through Jen’s hair, and her tone had let slip her quiet concern. They’d been fighting back then, and they’d been kissing, and it had all been confusing and tentative instead of angry.

 

_ Angry _ had been Season Six, rutting against walls and kisses that had never quite found the affection beneath the passion.  _ Angry  _ had been that night near the end of Jen’s contract negotiations when Lana had brought up the idea of this being  _ real _ , and Jen had seen the future stretched out in front of her and had flopped her negotiations in a rush of fear.  _ Angry  _ had been the only time they’d been together after that, the night Jen had wrapped, when she’d come home and found Lana waiting outside her door with fire in her eyes.

 

She doesn’t know how it is that you can spend six years with someone, playing a role that’s nothing like you, only for it all to come to a standstill when it stops.

 

Colin had mentioned Lana’s new  _ posse _ yesterday, two women brought in to replace Jen and Ginny, probably, and he talks about SDCC with a mix of bemusement and bewilderment.  _ You know Lana and her girls. _

 

_ Lana and her girls _ . She’d moved on quickly. Jen sits on a park bench and tips up her sunglasses to Google for photos she’d avoided of this year’s SDCC. They’re… _ god _ , they’re nothing like the past few years. A smaller group, which is the sort of thing that Jen envies, and they look uncomfortable as a hodgepodge family in the earlier pictures.  

 

Then they don’t.

 

Colin stands to the side in most of them, and the man they’d brought in to play an aged-up Henry seems bemused by most of it– but  _ Lana and her girls _ are huddled in together, laughing and cozy as though they haven’t only known each other a month. Lana has her forehead pressed to the side of one of them, has her arms around her in another, and then– by a cruel twist of fate– the next picture is a fanmade one where a fan had placed Jen into the picture with Lana.

 

_ Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck _ . She’s ready to book another flight, and she gets as far as making it into a cab before she winds up heading right back to the con venue instead.

 

Lana doesn’t see her, at least. Neither do the fans, who have eyes only for Lana and don’t look twice at her as she slips into the green room again. “We thought you’d left,” someone from the staff says, and she shrugs helplessly and watches from the door as Lana is mobbed by fans. 

 

Lana comes back into the green room only twice that day, herded from place to place and given only brief moments to herself. She’s smiling and energetic with the fans, but in the green room, she lets her weariness show. She falls asleep after her meet and greet, and it’s only with gentle nudging that she manages to jerk back awake and put on a smile again as she leaves the room. 

 

The con is scheduled to end by five, but Lana’s still signing autographs at six-thirty. There’s been some mismanagement on the part of the con, and Lana’s handler has been back in the green room a number of times to argue with the staff about it. She throws a wary look Jen’s way, and Jen avoids her eyes.

 

Yeah, she doesn’t know why she’s here, either.

 

Lana makes it into the green room after several staff members have politely urged Jen to leave. Jen stays put, watching with narrowed eyes as the door clicks shut and Lana slumps, her eyes closing as her handler puts a hand behind her back. “I’ve got you. Sit.” 

 

“I used to be better at these,” Lana says ruefully. She still hasn’t noticed Jen, and Jen shifts, ducks her head so the lamp beside her seat is blocking her. 

 

“There used to be fewer of these a year,” her handler points out. “Dinner–” 

 

“I’m supposed to go out with Bex–” 

 

“Dinner is in your hotel room,” her handler says firmly. “Reschedule. You’re dead on your feet. Go.” 

 

And even Lana doesn’t seem to have the energy to fight back right now. She dips her head and rises, exhaling and taking an energy bar from her bag, and she eats it quickly before she’s out the door again.

 

Jen follows her to her hotel room, which is a ridiculous and borderline creepy thing to do, even if hers is on the same floor. Lana’s handler walks her into her room, stays in there for a few minutes, and walks out, closing the door behind her and turning her glare onto Jen. “Don’t,” she says.

 

“I’m not–” 

 

“She’s exhausted. She doesn’t need to see you right now. Jesus, just give her a break, won’t you?” She shakes her head, disgusted, and walks down the hallway to her own room. 

 

Jen stares after her, her resolve only growing, and she raps on Lana’s door twice and then waits. 

 

Lana doesn’t open it immediately, which is new as well. Jen isn’t used to this much caution from Lana, and her voice falters at Lana’s “Who is it?” 

 

“Uh. It’s me,” she says unsteadily. “Can I–”

She doesn’t know what she’s going to ask, and she’s relieved when Lana pushes the door open. “Why,” Lana says, and she looks so weary that Jen’s protective instincts take over. 

 

“Did you eat?” she demands, sidestepping Lana and making it into the room. Lana just closes the door, leans against it, nods silently. There’s a picked-at piece of chicken on the table, and Jen doesn’t really think that that counts as eating, but. “Please tell me you’re going to sleep now.” 

 

“Can’t. Too early.” Lana shrugs sullenly. “I told you to leave.” 

 

“Funny thing about us both being adults who have no relationship,” Jen says archly. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.” She looks around the room, searching for  _ something _ and lands on the bathroom. “I’m going to draw you a bath,” she decides.

 

It’s a mark of just how tired Lana is that she doesn’t fight Jen. She drags her feet into the bathroom, sliding out of her jeans and pulling off her tee in a fluid motion that can still make Jen’s mouth dry. She stumbles at her bra and Jen reaches out, sliding her hand up tentatively to the bare skin of Lana’s back, waiting to be pushed away. Instead, Lana grunts something irritated and turns her attention to her panties instead, and Jen unclasps Lana’s bra and slides it off her arms.

 

The clear expanse of skin curving from Lana’s neck to shoulder is a tease, is calling to Jen; and Jen swallows and gathers up Lana’s hair instead. Lana ties it up, leaning silently on her as Jen guides her into the tub. 

 

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” Lana grumbles, grouchy. “You’re not my mother. You’re not even my friend. Why the hell are you here?” 

 

Jen ignores her, easing her down into the tub and crouching beside it. “You need someone right now,” she says finally, which doesn’t explain the rest of the day or why Jen’s even  _ here  _ right now, and Lana knows it. 

 

“I can’t take a bath,” Lana complains, even though she’s already submerged. “I’m going to pass out in here.” 

 

Jen smiles mirthlessly. “Guess I’d better stick around to supervise, then.” The swells of Lana’s breasts are the only part of her body that isn’t submerged, and Jen can’t quite look away from them. It’s been too long, and she’s only so strong. 

 

“I don’t understand,” Lana murmurs, but her eyes are drifting closed, surrendering to contentment. Silently, Jen reaches over, massaging Lana’s shoulders until the other woman lets out a sigh. “Was it like this for you yesterday?” she asks finally. “You have a harder time with these than I do.” 

 

“No,” Jen admits, because yesterday had been mismanaged, too, but she’d just  _ left  _ when it had gotten too late. And no one had questioned it. “My days are easier. No one has any expectations of me.” 

 

Lana smiles thinly. “That’s the way you like it,” she says.

 

“Yeah,” Jen admits, and Lana twists to face her, eyes open again. The grumpiness is still there, as is the anger, but there’s something else that Jen can’t name. 

 

“How’s your head?” Lana says, and it’s almost gentle, almost too kind to be them anymore. 

 

Jen can feel the lump in her throat at the kindness from Lana, at the hint that there might be something there besides hurt and betrayal. “Okay,” she says, her voice hoarse. “Better, lately. Fewer migraines since…”

 

Lana touches her cheek, her thumb stroking Jen’s jaw. “The show was poison for you,” she murmurs, and she sounds so sad about it that Jen can’t breathe. It’s been easier, somehow, when they’d both resisted any real connection, when they’d avoided and glowered and stuck to reliable, safe stubbornness.

 

But now they’re being honest again,  _ caring _ again, and Jen wants to sob. “Not all of it,” she whispers. “Not…not…”

 

She can’t make it through her confession. She can only quiver, leaning over a bathtub with a former lover holding Jen’s face in her hand, and Lana shifts forward and kisses her gently. It lights a fire within Jen, sends it roaring to a crescendo in an instant, and Jen rears back up on her knees, kisses Lana hard, feels lips on hers and knows what she’d always known.

 

She’s never going to find someone like Lana, never again. She’s told herself before that she’d built it up in her mind, that it hadn’t been this good, that that kind of compatibility is a fairytale– and now, gasping into Lana’s mouth as Lana yanks at her jacket, she surrenders to the truth once more.

 

“Are you sure?” she manages in an exhale as Lana tugs at the hem of her dress. 

 

Lana’s arms are already almost limp, still just as tired as before their sudden rush of adrenaline, and Lana growls, “Get _ in  _ here,” in response. Jen yanks off her dress, strips down as Lana watches with lidded, hungry eyes, and climbs into the tub to kiss Lana properly. 

 

They kiss in silence and Jen gropes upward, massages Lana’s breasts between her fingers and rocks against her center, pausing only when she realizes that Lana isn’t responding. “You’re too tired for this,” she murmurs.

 

Lana lets out a weak protest, her arms sliding around Jen to pull her close. “I’m here,” she says, but her eyes are drifting closed again. They’re wrapped around each other, intimately entwined, and Jen kisses her neck absently and craves her and wants her to  _ sleep _ just as much. 

 

“Hey,” she whispers, nuzzling Lana’s neck, and her fingers creep down, palm spreading against Lana’s abdomen. Lana exhales, reaching up to tangle a hand in Jen’s short hair. “Do you like it?” Jen ventures, fingers moving in light circles over Lana’s navel, creeping ever downward. 

 

Lana sighs, stroking Jen’s hair between her fingers, and Jen pauses breathlessly, waits for a response that somehow matters more than ever. “I do,” she says, and Jen buries her hand between Lana’s legs, finds the path to her center as easily as she ever has.

 

It’s muscle memory, both of them knowing exactly what it is that makes them wild. They’ve been hiding in dark corners for years, getting off in stolen moments, and Jen knows how to make Lana come fast, just as Lana can do for her. Lana sags against the wall of the bathtub, trembling around Jen’s hand, and she murmurs, her voice shaky, “I forgot how good you are at that.” 

 

“Really?” Jen says, hovering over her, and she digs back in again, flicks Lana’s clit and twists her fingers around still-contracting walls.

 

Lana shuts her eyes and shakes her head, and Jen’s alarmed to see the tears leaking through the edges of her eyelids. Jen looks away– looks down, kisses Lana’s bare breasts and drives deeper into her, this time achingly gentle. Lana doesn’t touch her– not beyond a hand running up and down her back and another in her hair– and it’s okay, somehow. It feels like penance, and her self-righteous defenses fade in the face of Lana’s fury. 

 

Lana holds her, and somehow, it’s enough to make Jen sob into her skin, suck in an embarrassing, gulping breath and kiss her breast, curl around her as she continues to evoke whispery moans from Lana. When Lana comes this time, she knocks down the drain with her foot and stands, wrapping a towel around Jen before she gets her own.

 

It always ends like this. Jen barges in with some half-assed determination to save Lana, and Lana silently looks after her, just like she would any…well,  _ fan _ . Jen can be fighting her forties tooth and nail, but nothing makes her feel younger than Lana with her hands on Jen’s shoulders, eyes dark as she looks her over. “Just come,” Lana says tiredly, and she pulls Jen to her bed.

 

It’s still too early to sleep, but Lana slides a leg between Jen’s legs and kisses her lazily, the cool sheets soft against their skin, and Jen wraps her arms around Lana and sleeps before she does.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, there’s a rapping on the door, and Jen rolls over, momentarily bewildered at her own nudity. Then she sees the mass of brown hair beside her, and she inhales, biting back at the fierce joy that waking up beside Lana always seems to inspire. “Lana!” someone is calling beyond the door. “Lana, are you  _ comatose _ ?” 

 

_ Bex _ . Jen has taken pictures with Bex, has smiled and made idle conversation, but neither of them has ever quite gotten over the Lana-shaped elephant in the room. Bex is Lana’s  _ friend _ , which is something that Jen’s never managed, and Jen’s never quite forgiven her for that– just like Bex has never forgiven Jen for being…whatever she is…to Lana.

 

So maybe it’s concern for Lana’s sleep or maybe it’s pure spite that has her rolling out of bed and pulling on Lana’s robe, sliding the door open a crack. “Let her sleep,” Jen says in a low voice. “She had a long day yesterday.” 

 

Bex’s eyes flicker to her, to the robe, and to Lana curled up in the bed. Jen watches her silently, daring her to object. “Her flight is at noon,” she says coolly. “We have brunch plans at the airport.” She pushes the door open more, taking in the towels on the floor and the untouched meal that Lana never had finished. 

 

She steps into the room, closes the door, she turns back with her eyes blazing. “Why are you still here?” she demands. “What are you trying to accomplish with this?” 

 

“Excuse me?” Jen says, taken aback. “I’m…I’m…” Why  _ is  _ she here? Why had she missed her flight and spent a day waiting around for Lana? Because Colin had mentioned a  _ posse _ ? Because Lana hadn’t looked at her at all? “I’m here for Lana,” she says finally, because it’s the only truth that she knows.

 

Bex scoffs. “Of course you are. You finally leave the show–” And she shakes her head slowly with that, her eyes dark with anger. The reboot they’d developed after Jen had decided to leave hadn’t needed Bex, and Jen hadn’t realized–

 

–It’s not her  _ fault _ . She’d lost, too. “You finally leave the show and you still come back to fuck up Lana some more.” Bex paces in front of the bed, cutting neatly between Jen and Lana, her voice low. “You’re  _ poison  _ to her.” 

 

_ The show was poison for you. _

 

“You have no idea what I am to her,” Jen says sharply. That’s what has always pissed Bex off. Jen and Lana keep their  _ thing _ guarded, silent, and it had been something that Bex had never been able to break into. Bex can dry hump Lana on set a dozen times while Jen pretends that she isn’t seeing red, but she doesn’t have  _ this  _ with Lana, and she knows it. 

 

“I know you’re toxic,” Bex says darkly. “I know that you’ve done nothing but cause her misery. What was this? Some twisted way for you to get closure and leave me to pick up the pieces? Why do you do this to her?” 

 

“I haven’t done anything,” Jen says, her teeth grinding together. “I know you think you’re doing this out of some kind of– concern-jealousy–” 

 

Bex laughs, almost a snarl. “Jealousy? Why would I be jealous of you? Who are you but some washed-up remnant of her past who will  _ never  _ be who Lana wishes you were?” And  _ fuck _ , Jen’s been fooling herself if she’d really believed that Bex couldn’t grasp them, because Bex knows perfectly well. “I know what Lana needs. I’m her  _ friend _ , which is something you never bothered to be. And what she needs is for you to stay out of her life so she can move the  _ fuck  _ on.” 

 

It’s easy to ignore Bex, to dismiss her as someone who has her own motivations. It’s easier to wait until Lana wakes up and makes a decision of her own. It’s easiest to back away from Bex, shaking her head and saying, “Fine. Explain this to her, then,” and grabbing her clothes and walking from the room with her head held high and her eyes puffy with tears she won’t shed in front of Bex.

  
She misses Lana the moment she sinks down on her own bed, clutching the robe to her, and she curls up alone in a room she should have given up days before and thinks  _ I know you’re toxic, I know you’re toxic, I know _ –


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to whomever can tell me if you can mute someone on Instagram and, if not, why would you deliberately skip over exactly one former castmate's posts. :thinking face emoji: Also to ******, who will be especially frustrated at the Jen POV on what is certainly _not_ a bear.

She goes to her place in LA. She reads a book with her dog curled onto her lap and tells herself that she isn't alone. She applies for roles she won’t get because she’s too old, and she watches questions and comments pile up on Instagram and Twitter. They’re all about Colin. They’re always about Colin, and she wonders how she’d lost her entire identity so swiftly.

 

It had been sometime around the day that she’d come back from– filming an  _ engagement _ , for fuck’s sake, and she’d called Lana, fingers trembling and the prop ring still on her finger. Lana had been at her house when she’d gotten home, waiting in the front hall, and Jen had shoved her against the door and slipped the finger with the ring on it into Lana. 

 

They’d started out hard and angry and fast, Jen gripped with a fury that she can’t–  _ won’t _ – name, and then… And then, as always, they’d faded into tenderness instead, hands tracing skin mindlessly and eyes locked together. Jen had wrapped her arms around Lana, sometime around when they’d fallen onto the couch, Lana crouched over Jen like a cat, nails dug into her skin, and she’d thought–

 

She doesn’t know what she’d thought back then. She’d kissed Lana and Lana had watched her intently and then said,  _ Don’t you want something real? _

 

Jen had pulled away, had sat up, certain that Lana was ending this– this thing between them, because it had been the very antithesis of  _ real _ . But no. But no. Lana had perched in front of her on the couch, her eyes very soft, and Jen had thought the impossible– that Lana–  _ Lana _ , who can laugh off anything if she chooses to, who knows herself and Jen both far too well to ever let this mean anything–

 

Jen had thought, struck by lightning, that Lana might actually love her.

 

Which is  _ stupid _ , self-destructive in a way that Lana  _ never  _ is, because Jen is a disaster and no one knows that better than Lana. Jen isn’t capable of…of any of this, of being what she’d have to be if she were in  _ love _ , and Lana can laugh off anything but Jen’s never laughed off anything that matters in her entire life.

 

And Lana’s eyes had been hard but thoughtful and the playfulness is gone, gone into something that Jen couldn’t think about, not without making some halfhearted excuse about forgetting something on set and fleeing. She’d locked herself in her room after Lana had walked away, eyes only hard then, and she’d had a panic attack that had lasted hours, shaking and her heart racing so quickly she’d nearly called an ambulance.

 

She’d lost her job. She’d lost herself, and now she sits alone in her house and thinks about bathtubs and beds and Lana still holding her after she’d wrapped the towel around her.

 

She wants to see Bex as the villain of this piece. Bex had chased her off, had called her toxic, had broken up whatever the fuck this budding… _ something  _ had been, and Bex  _ should  _ be the villain. But she has the nagging suspicion that the villain might be a little closer to home instead, and she clenches her teeth and stares harder at the page of another book she doesn’t even like. 

 

She really wishes that every time she closes her eyes, she doesn’t see Lana’s face, eyes dark and tired. Maybe she’d sleep better, then. Maybe she’d stop second-guessing what had gone on during that con and why. 

 

She’s visited Lana’s Twitter so often lately that it’s on her search page when she opens a new tab, and she puts down her terrible book, opens a new tab, and clicks on Lana’s page. Lana’s header is a photo of her posing on her stomach, eyes drifting closed and her curves even more defined than usual, and it feels a bit like a personal attack sometimes. Sometimes, it just makes Jen ache.

 

Her last tweet is crossposted from Instagram– a selfie from set yesterday, Lana beside one of her new costars with beaming smiles on their faces, and Jen swallows past the lump in her throat and hits the button to like the picture. 

 

Her phone rings precisely twenty minutes later. “What’s going on?” Lana demands. “What are you up to?”

 

“I’m not allowed to like a post on Instagram now?” Jen says, forcing her voice to remain even.

 

Lana snorts. “You’ve liked posts from  _ Sean  _ before you’ve liked any from me. What’s your game, Morrison?” Her voice falters somewhere around  _ game _ and Jen wonders again about hard, thoughtful eyes, and the night when it had seemed possible that this thing they have might matter.

 

They’re both actresses– and  _ good  _ ones– and they should be able to have conversations in slick voices that don’t hurt. Instead, Jen’s voice is raw as she asks, “Did Bex tell you why I left?” 

 

She’s almost hoping that Bex hadn’t, that this is the secret that will make leaving okay and someone else the one who’d hurt Lana most. But Lana says, “She did,” because of course she did. Of course her friend had told her the truth. Lana surrounds herself by people who tell her the truth, while Jen had wanted anything but that.

 

“Do you…?” Jen starts again. “Do you agree with her?” she says, hating how needy it sounds. “That I’m…that we’re  _ toxic _ ?”   

 

Lana’s voice is slow, thoughtful. “I don’t think she’s wrong,” she says finally, and Jen’s fingers squeeze around her phone. “But I don’t know how right she is.” 

 

“She’s straight, you know,” Jen says, chewing on her lip and feeling bold and obnoxious. “Not that she wouldn’t fuck you if she could, anyway. She’s obsessed with you.” 

 

Lana’s voice is warning, which hurts more than anything else. Jen remembers with longing when Bex had been new on set her second time around and had said some things that had infuriated Lana. Jen had been only too glad to listen to Lana ranting, the other woman half-dressed and storming around her trailer with fire in her eyes. Then they’d worked it out, and now Bex is… “She’s my friend. Something you’ve never been.” 

 

“I could be your friend,” Jen says stubbornly. It’s a retort that has very little to it, and she’s startled when something loosens inside of her at the thought of it. When hot tears spring to her eyes for a moment, and she craves it so hard that she can barely breathe.  _ Friend _ . She isn’t sure what they are, but she’s very sure of what they aren’t. And maybe that’s… 

 

Lana snorts. “Have we ever spent time together, just the two of us, without your tongue in my mouth?” 

 

“Friends do that,” Jen protests, and she hates the smile that has taken hold of her face, dopey and wistful and the sort that she’d have to practice in front of a mirror to pull off onscreen because it’s so not  _ her _ . “You’re telling me that Emma and Regina have never…” Her voice trails off, somewhere between suggestive and challenging.

 

Lana laughs,  _ hard _ , the kind of laugh that they haven’t shared in over a year. “I think that’s the most attractive thing you’ve ever said,” she says, and Jen can  _ hear _ the glint of delight in her eyes, the curve of her lips, the surprise and affection that transform her face. She’s always been able to surprise Lana– a comment so brash that it has Lana cackling, a swift movement against Lana when she doesn’t expect it– and on anyone else, it might have meant that Jen held some power over them. Never Lana. “Okay, Jenny. Let’s be friends. What exactly does this entail? Explain it without nudity.”

 

Jen stares at her computer screen, stumped. “I don’t know,” she admits. They don’t have much in common, except that they sort of do. Jen’s left with the uncomfortable knowledge that there isn’t a single thing that Lana’s ever introduced to her that she hasn’t loved, aside from…well, Lana’s husband. “We could chat on the phone about our lives. That’s pretty friendly. FaceTime on occasion.” 

 

“No,” Lana says, and Jen is immediately annoyed.

 

“You know, if we’re going to try this friend thing, then you can at least work with me. I  _ get  _ it. I know I was the one to fuck up, but I’m not going to–” 

 

“No,” Lana says again, laughing gently. “I’m  _ here _ . In LA. I live here on weekends now.” 

 

“Oh,” Jen says, deflating. “Wait, what? What about…?” She closes her eyes, pressing her fingers to her temple. Maybe they haven’t been so cozy after all. “Come over,” she says. “Watch something with me. Anything but  _ Once Upon A Time _ .” She chuckles wryly.

 

Lana’s laugh fades at that, and Jen remembers  _ the show was poison for you  _ and Lana grasping something that Jen fails regularly at verbalizing.

 

“Yeah,” Lana says. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

They watch a movie. It’s one of Lana’s picks, and it’s like…getting to the second-best part of sex without the actual sex, the part afterward when they’re still wrapped together and talk about nothing at all, reluctant to let go of each other yet. They start the movie sitting side by side, stiff backs and uncertain eyes, and they drift closer as the movie continues. By the end, Lana is curled against Jen, keeping up a running commentary while Jen drifts off during a climactic scene. 

 

Lana is outraged at that, and Jen blinks sleepily at her, trying to understand exactly what has her so angry. The next thing she remembers is being eased down fully onto the couch, Lana brushing hair out of her face and tracing the line of her cheekbone before she shifts away. There’s a blanket on her in the morning, and Lana doesn’t call her again.

 

To be fair, Jen doesn’t call Lana, either. Jen does some minor publicity work for a trendy cause and broods some more and auditions for a role that requires her to be topless for the entire play, save the first few minutes. The role goes to a younger actress.

 

How can she have been a regular in two highly successful shows– a  _ lead _ , in one case– and left both feeling like a failure? She’s thirty-eight, and she abhors the idea of being on television ever again, but it’s beginning to feel as though it’s all she might have. She pulls some strings to get her name floated for directing gigs that might actually pay, but there isn’t much in the field and even less for someone just starting out, no matter what kind of connections she has. Producers don’t take risks on newcomers, and especially not on women.

 

And Lana still hasn’t called. Jen has started regularly reading her timeline in a sad attempt to pretend she has motivations other than checking in on Lana. There are pictures nearly daily, with new costars and old, and she looks like she’s having fun in this new show-without-Jen. She’s the star now, the one keeping the show afloat, and no one has to pretend that it’s anyone else anymore.

 

Jen likes another post on Instagram. She’d gotten a lot of tweets after the last one, each more obnoxious than the last, as though she’d surrendered the luxury of getting the benefit of the doubt. Lana’s fans are…Lana’s fans, devoted to her regardless of costars or ships or whatever ridiculous thing she’s doing now. Maybe because of that. 

 

She tries putting herself in their shoes, that level of blind adoration, and it makes her skin crawl. That isn’t who they are. She can’t– she doesn’t  _ blindly adore  _ Lana. She’s just a little…fixated.

 

She remembers again the panic attack after that night with Lana, remembers how her heart had felt as though it might beat right out of her chest. She’d been terrified. Sometimes she thinks that she might still be terrified, that she’s been operating on fear since that moment and every decision she’s made since has been about that terror.

 

Lana doesn’t call her after this Instagram like, or the next. 

 

She finally  _ does  _ call when Jen is in agony, her head pounding and her throat dry as a migraine tears through her. Jen sees the name light up her screen and reaches for it, answers the call and then gives up. She can’t remember if she’d taken any meds when the migraine had started. She can’t remember much of anything but the slow hammering of the migraine through her brain, growing in intensity with each blow.

 

And someone is ringing the doorbell– or is that just another blinding pain? She staggers to her feet, stumbles from where she’d been slumped over in the kitchen and yanks open the door before she thinks to ask who it is. Thankfully, it isn’t a stalker or a pap. 

 

It’s Lana, a look of determination on her face as though she’d been planning to break open the door, and Jen laughs helplessly, tears streaming down her face at the effort of moving through the pain. “Hi,” she manages.

 

Lana stares at her. “I thought you were being held hostage,” she says, and then understanding finally dawns. “A migraine. Sit  _ down _ . What are you doing, answering the phone in this state?” She marches Jen into the kitchen again, rummaging through the cabinets to find pills that Jen has definitely not taken. “Take them,” she orders, setting them down with a glass of water. Jen takes them obediently. “Now. Upstairs.” 

 

“I’m tired,” Jen complains, but she lets Lana steer her to the stairs, pausing at the railing as another surge of pain hammers into her. Lana waits, rubbing her back absently, and nudges her forward when she stops shaking. “You’re such a  _ mom _ ,” Jen mutters, and then remembers too late that Lana lives in LA now and maybe she isn’t–

 

She stammers out something indistinct, stumbling over her words, and Lana says lightly, only the barest touch of pain in her voice, “That was one of my favorite things about the set before…you know. So many people to mother. Jared, you–” 

 

“Shut up,” Jen grumbles, staggering up the stairs. She collapses onto her bed, Lana hovering over her, and says, struggling to sound casual, “So you don’t have that kind of relationship with your new costars? You all seem pretty tight.” 

 

Lana shrugs, unwilling to respond. “It’s…different,” she says finally. “They’re great,” she adds swiftly. “There’s a lot less tension on set now. But…you know, they’re all new here, and I’m not, and I guess the dynamic is different.” 

 

“You’re the  _ star _ ,” Jen drawls out, her head still in agony and what’s the  _ point  _ of pretending otherwise anymore, really? “Of course it’s different. Not that I’d–” 

 

Lana pushes her down onto her bed. “Stop,” she says firmly. “Close your eyes.” Jen obliges. Lana shifts, a moment of silence that Jen can imagine is her moving around the room, rifling through Jen’s things until she pauses and says, “Stay here.” 

 

Jen cracks an eye open. She’d found the warming bear that they’d both gotten, perched in its usual spot on the dresser; and Lana says, “I’m going to heat it up,” and disappears downstairs. 

 

She’s back a few minutes later to press the bear to Jen’s stomach, the warmth soothing even far from her head. The meds are starting to kick in, and she manages to say at last, fingers toying with the bear’s fur, “You never called again. I thought we were going to be friends.” 

 

It’s a little whinier than she’d meant for it to be, and Lana tosses her an amused look. “I hadn’t decided yet,” she says, her tone less than amused. 

 

Which is…really not fair at all, because Jen had put herself out there and Lana’s still making her work for every step forward since. Jen had been the one to initiate all of this far too many times, and it had worked for so long only because she’d been so sure that it hadn’t  _ meant  _ anything to Lana. Fuck buddies mean nothing to Lana. Friends, though… “And now?” Jen challenges, eyes unfocused when she means for them to be sharp.

 

Lana laughs helplessly. “I still don’t know. Maybe? I  _ did  _ call, and I don’t know  _ why _ .” She sounds so uncertain that Jen almost thinks that her migraine-addled brain is playing tricks on her.

 

“You always know why.” Lana is spontaneous, a burning nova of new plans and free spirit, but she’s always seemed to know every little bit of herself perfectly. Jen, who tucks away large pieces of herself in closets and spends her time holding the door shut desperately, has envied her for it.

 

“Yeah,” Lana says. Her voice is distant. “I guess I do.” 

 

* * *

 

She does call the next time, so maybe she really does know why. Jen is driving to an event that she’s due to make an appearance at. She’d opted to go alone. “All my friends are filming  _ something  _ right now. I thought that this quiet time would be good, but all I want to do is…I don’t know, be Emma Swan again,” she admits into the silence of the car.

 

Lana’s voice is cautious over the speakers. “Do you really?” 

 

“It’s simpler than being me,” Jen mutters. “But no. No, I never want to…” She stops, wistful. “What would I do onscreen, anyway? Hole up in some quiet little house raising babies while Colin does all the action scenes?” She bites her lip, pulling off too much lipstick. Her stylist is going to be  _ pissed _ . “Emma got her happy ending,” she says. It sounds unconvincing.

 

Lana says, “I never–” She stops. “No, never mind. I shouldn’t.” 

 

Jen doesn’t press her. They don’t press each other, not in the ways they’d needled each other in the past. Back when they’d been on set, carrying on a secret on-again-off-again affair for too many years, every barb had been an excuse to jump each other, to be pressed against a wall and take out her frustration on Lana’s smooth skin, on that smirk that gets kissed off Lana’s face soon enough. It hadn’t been healthy, and it hadn’t been friendly. 

 

They’re trying friendly. 

 

Friendly is lying in bed with Lana beside her, and it’s so tempting to roll over and kiss her but she  _ doesn’t _ . They’re listening to music like a couple of teenagers, Lana intent and shushing her whenever Jen tries to talk. “I think Roni would listen to this,” she declares after one song. “Play it again.” She doesn’t explain her motivations, doesn’t unpack Roni aloud, and Jen finds afterward that she kind of wishes that Lana had. A part of her is still held captive by  _ Once Upon a Time _ , by storylines that had never made much sense and character arcs that had fallen apart as Jen had acted them out helplessly.

 

Friendly is Lana DMing her tweets that she finds  _ hilarious _ , usually something from a fan about exactly how attractive one of them is. She accidentally retweets one about Jen having a  _ rocking bod _ , and it’s gone in seconds but still long enough for Jen to track down enough tweets in response to it that Lana doesn’t talk to her for a week. 

 

Friendly is the two of them out for drinks in a dark corner of LA, both of them with sunglasses in October and talking too loudly, too quickly. Jen says something about Bex that might not be the most complimentary, and Lana says, “Why are you so obsessed with her?” and then Jen kisses Lana drunkenly. 

 

Lana kisses her back, climbing onto Jen’s lap and pinning her against the wall behind them, and they walk out hand-in-hand and it’s so  _ nice _ . They sober up in the Uber, still wrapped together and kissing desperately, and Lana nearly pushes Jen out the door at her place and directs the driver to her own place at the same time.

 

Friendly is sitting out on the balcony of Lana’s apartment late at night, watching fireworks that some kids are setting off on Halloween, and Lana saying suddenly, “So, Director Morrison, what would you direct me in?” 

 

Jen can’t conceal a pleased flush at the title, and she’s glad for the dark as she chews on her lip and considers admitting something she hasn’t to anyone else. “I wrote a script,” she says, and Lana blinks at her, setting down her glass and crossing one leg over the other as she watches Jen silently. “It’s…” Jen shrugs. “It’s not very good.” It  _ isn’t _ . It’s a first draft at best, and she’s walked around her apartment reading it to herself so often that the lines sound trite and dull. “It’s just a little romantic drama that I was playing with. Two women kind of figuring each other out while they figure themselves out–” 

 

“Would you play the other woman?” Lana says, pursing her lips. “Is there a lot of artsy lesbian fucking?” She drawls it out almost teasingly, but there’s something about the way she says it that has Jen gulp. 

 

“Tasteful,” Jen says haughtily, in a vain attempt to sound a little less humiliated. Lana just grins, teeth gleaming in the night. “I told you it wasn’t good.” 

 

“Let me be the judge of that,” Lana says, and she holds out her hand expectantly and doesn’t put it down until Jen emails her the document. 

 

Friendly is the day Lana FaceTimes her from the trailer, ranting about her day and an authorial decision for the midseason finale that she’s fuming about. Jen putters around her kitchen, cooking dinner and then lunch for the next day and then a soup for the weekend, listening attentively and trying not to think about exactly how attractive Lana looks when she’s worked up. Yeah, there are moments when she doesn’t miss being Emma Swan at all. 

 

Friendly  _ works _ , and maybe that’s what’s the most unbelievable thing about this is. They’re back in Jen’s house after filming is over, and Lana is talking about Thanksgiving. It isn’t for a few more weeks, but there’s some extravagant family party that she’s already preparing for. Jen is tired, had delivered a speech at an event earlier tonight and then invited Lana over anyway to celebrate the end of the 2017 filming season, and she’s only listening with half an ear. “–You could come, you know,” Lana says suddenly, and Jen jerks back to the present.

 

“To your family Thanksgiving?” Jen repeats dubiously. “What would I– do you always invite your friends to…” 

 

Lana laughs lightly, and she might be an actress– one of the best Jen’s ever met– but she can’t hide the discomfort there. “I thought you might be alone here in this big house with no one to keep you company. Is Rose–?” 

 

“No,” Jen says, and she doesn’t know what they’re talking about except that there’s a line being crossed…somewhere, in her head or in Lana’s. “No, I go to my family, too. You know this. I do it every year. I sent you pictures during...Season Four, I think.” 

 

Lana snorts. “You were naked. I wasn’t really looking at whose bedroom you were in.” She clears her throat, a smirk tugging at her lips. “But I was very Thankful.” 

 

“I’m sure you were.” Jen had been pretty thankful for the pictures she’d gotten in response, too. That had been the start of a good year, one of the few where they’d really gotten along well throughout. Then things had gone haywire. “Really?” she says dubiously. “Thanksgiving?” 

 

“Fuck off, Morrison,” Lana says, and she snatches the last plum from the fruit bowl and bites savagely into it. 

 

“My plum,” Jen says mournfully, and Lana takes another bite and then kisses her chastely on the lips, leaving behind a hint of flavor.

 

“Isn’t it good?” she says, and she winks at Jen and heads for the living room. Jen follows, just as anyone else would when Lana Parrilla beckons.

 

* * *

 

They do their own Thanksgivings. This is the first time since that single year that Jen finds that she misses Lana when they’re apart for the weekend, that she suddenly can’t go more than a few days without seeing her. They’ve been spending more and more time together, more than Jen has with  _ anyone  _ since she and Rose had been inseparable, and it’s a miracle that they haven’t been exposed by any fans or paparazzi yet. 

 

“Not there’s been any paparazzi,” she says, shrugging. She’s in New York for the week after Thanksgiving, returning to her favorite home for the first time in ages. She knows why she’s spent so long in LA, even when the opportunities and auditions she wants are more often here. She knows why she’s finally made it back to Manhattan  _ now _ , when Lana is staying for a few extra days in Brooklyn. 

 

Lana’s on speaker in her living room, and Jen hasn’t broached the topic of visiting yet. It’s too needy, infringing on her personal time with her family just because Jen wants…her  _ friend _ , because that’s what they are now. “I auditioned for another play,” she admits. “This one actually seems like it might be worthwhile. Not that I’ve had much luck lately.” 

 

“You will,” Lana says with certainty. “Phenomenal actress–” Jen’s cheeks warm over that. “–Pretty, blonde, and with a  _ rocking bod _ , I’ve heard.”

 

“Shut up,” Jen says, running an absentminded hand through her own hair. “I’m getting too old for this. At this point in my life, I should be starring in movies or I don’t–” She bites her lip in frustration. “I had a plan, you know?  _ Once _ fucked it up. I don’t know. I– I’m so tired, Lana.” 

 

“You were the star of a successful show, Jen,” Lana says patiently. “That’s not a failure.”

 

It feels almost mocking when it’s Lana saying it, and Jen has to forcefully remind herself that A, Lana means it sincerely and that B, they’ve finally created a tenuous friendship and they can  _ not  _ fuck it up. “I was a love interest,” Jen corrects her. “I was–” She swallows and then amends, “It’s not like I didn’t love what they did with Emma, but let’s call a spade a spade–” 

 

Lana interrupts her, her voice going hard with that last response. “Why is it so hard for you to admit that you’re angry that your story was given to a man?” she says, and her eyes are blazing from the screen of Jen’s phone, unreadable. 

 

Jen scoffs. “I’m not– I  _ like  _ it. Them. The romance.  _ Captain Swan _ ,” she says, forcing out the fans’ name for it. “It was the happiest Emma had been, and I love Emma.” 

 

“It sapped her of all her vitality,” Lana shoots back. “It sapped  _ you  _ of all of  _ yours _ , so don’t–” 

 

Jen grits her teeth. This is the dangerous place, the place friends don’t go. This is the anger that leads to hard fucks in corners where no one can see them. “If it were so awful, would it hav–?” 

 

“You like knowing that you can play a role where people might actually believe that you like fucking men,” Lana says sharply, and Jen falls silent, her fingers clenched around her phone. “Isn’t that it?” 

 

Jen grits her teeth. There are things she’d told Lana early on– back when they’d been something other than just rivals, and she’d been so swept up in the kind-of-relationship that she’d admitted too much.  _ I don’t know if I prefer men. I know I prefer you.  _ She’d hoped Lana had forgotten. But no, Lana never forgets. “Stop it. It wasn’t…it isn’t that,” Jen says, and hopes dearly that it isn’t a lie. “Look, the relationship was the only thing I had that– it carried the show, okay? It was something that mattered to a lot of people. It made  _ me  _ matter, and I needed that…” Her voice trails off.

 

“You were the star,” Lana reminds her, her voice gentle again, and Jen snaps.

 

“No! I wasn’t. I wasn’t, Lana,  _ you  _ of all people can’t lie to me about this–” Her voice cracks.  _ Dammit.  _ It’s been six years and it still feels raw, the certainty of failure. She’d been the star, and she’d been perfectly likeable to the audience, mostly, but she’d been overshadowed by  _ breakout star _ . She’d failed, and she’d known it half a season in, and that’s when her crush on Lana had faded into something more manageable like resentment for at least a little while.

 

Lana’s eyes track hers, her face tiny and frustrated on the screen. “I’m not going to lie to you, Jen,” she says. “I’m not going to…make myself into someone humble and meek who never wanted any of this. Of  _ course _ I wanted to…it’s every supporting actor’s dream, to gain a fanbase like this.” She pauses, eyes boring into Jen’s. “But you could have been there with me,” she says fiercely. “It wasn’t  _ mine _ , it was both of ours for a long time. We had a readymade–”

 

“We don’t talk about this,” Jen says stiffly. 

 

“Of course not,” Lana says bitterly. “Why would you want  _ Swan Queen  _ when you could just attach yourself to a subpar actor and promote him to the point that  _ he  _ takes your place,  _ not  _ me–” She sucks in a deep breath. “But at least he was a  _ man _ , right?” 

 

She doesn’t sound like a friend anymore. She sounds like Lana-in-Vancouver, fingers pumping inside Jen as she spits out mocking words. They had only been venomous near the end, when they’d also been more tender than ever before. They’re dancing dangerously close to disaster, and Jen shuts her eyes and says, “This was a mistake.” 

 

“What was?” Lana challenges, and she’s so  _ sexy  _ like this, so utterly irresistible. 

 

“This,” Jen says, waving her free hand at the screen. She can feel a headache threatening to come on. “This…friendship… _ thing _ . Talking about this. Coming to New York to see you. I don’t know.” 

 

Lana furrows her brow. “You came to New York to see me?” she repeats, and she sounds suddenly fragile, suddenly that woman who’d been tired and angry and had still allowed Jen to lower her into a bathtub. “Why didn’t you–?” 

 

“I have to go,” Jen says, and she hits the end button before she has to answer any more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your amazing feedback! We're all in this trash pit together now and I recognize and embrace your shame in all those anon comments (she says, from an account that is definitely not her primary). I love hearing from y'all! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long! I've been hella busy and my investment with this ship comes and goes as real life events unfold. Originally, I didn't want to post this one until I figured out how to resolve the whole story, and I think I'm getting closer to that so here it is! Thank you all for reading and for your comments! They're much appreciated. <3

She gets the audition, and she takes the role without hesitation. She loves New York, loves getting to act again, even loves meeting fans outside the doors each evening. She signs autographs and chats with them briefly and enjoys fan interactions more than she ever had at cons and on set. 

 

She wishes she could tell Lana about this, about a role she’s beginning to warm to and how she still has fans even in January of 2018. She’d gotten so attached to Lana that this new silence between them is agonizing, is endless. She’d been the one to hang up, but the weeks since their argument stretch on, and she dwells on it daily.

 

Her old fans are beginning to drift away, to turn their focus on Colin or move on to a new pretty blonde actress who’s younger and probably better with her fans. She’s always been careful to put a distance between herself and her fans– expose less, verge on standoffish with the more intrusive, always cautious– and most of the ones who visit now are respectful of that distance.

 

The ones who aren’t take her by surprise every time, and she begins to take an extra ten minutes backstage after each performance to compose herself in advance. She sits, does some simple breathing exercises, and then heads to the stage door to greet the fans who had paid to see her.

 

She checks her phone after a particularly good performance, one that has left her exhilarated and maybe in need of a few extra minutes to come down from. She’s absently scanning her top mentions on Twitter when she sees it, reposted again and again by fan blogs.  _ @LanaParrilla spotted at @jenmorrisonlive’s play on January 22 _ . 

 

Her brow furrows. There’s a picture attached, a woman who  _ might  _ have Lana’s profile seated with her face turned from the camera, and she shakes her head. There’s no way. They’re  _ fighting _ , and Lana isn’t even in New York–

 

“Hey, Morrison,” says a voice behind her, and Jen spins around. Lana is leaning against the doorway of the dressing room, her eyes light and her smile genuine. “The reviews were right. You  _ were _ a revelation.” 

 

“Lana,” Jen breathes, and she’s immediately– instinctively– scanning the dressing room, glancing out into the hallway. No one is looking at them. No one has noticed her– except for half the Internet, in one damning photo. “What are you– you read reviews?” she says dumbly, because somehow  _ that’s  _ the part of this that stands out most. Lana had read reviews, had looked her up even when they’re not talking.

 

Lana slides further into the room. “I want to apologize,” she says. She has a way of staring directly at a person when she’s being serious, eyes fixed on Jen until Jen is unable to look away. “I went too far during our last conversation. I shouldn’t have said…well, any of it.” She sighs. “We have a lot of old resentments, the two of us. But I think…” And now her eyes are tentative, almost questioning. “I think that we had a good friendship there for a while, didn’t we? And I don’t want to lose that.” 

 

“Lana,” Jen says again. She doesn’t know what else to say. Lana apologies are so rare that she doesn’t think she’s ever gotten one before– or given any of her own, to be fair. Jen had been sure that they’d remain in limbo forever, until they see each other again and are suddenly unable to stay resentful and angry anymore. “Yeah,” she manages. “It was…a good thing.” 

 

She doesn’t say  _ I missed you  _ and Lana doesn’t either, but Lana steps up to her and wraps an arm around her waist. Jen takes it as an invitation, wraps her arms around Lana and buries her face in her hair, and feels Lana grip her just as tightly, brushing her lips against Jen’s neck. It feels comfortable, easy in a way that they’ve never been, and Lana is smiling when they part, the same awareness in her eyes.

 

“Hey,” she says, and there’s laughter in her eyes. “Who would have expected this from us?” Jen smiles, too. It feels as though a heavy weight has lifted from her chest, and she can breathe properly again. 

 

There’s a new weight on her now,  _ @LanaParrilla spotted at @jenmorrisonlive’s play _ , but she refuses to let it mar this moment. Lana is wandering through her little corner of the dressing room, plucking a flower from a bouquet to inhale its scent. “I was going to bring you flowers,” she says. “But I thought you might have a conniption at how that might look.” She winks playfully, just a bit mocking. “No one knows I’m here, promise.” 

 

Jen forces a smile. “Thanks.” Lana looks at her curiously. “I…do you want to meet back at my place? We can catch up. Are you here for the whole weekend?” Filming must have started again in Vancouver already, and losing ten hours to fly to New York for a weekend without any occasion to justify it is… “Are you staying in Brooklyn?” 

 

Lana shrugs. “I haven’t really thought it through yet. I had to leave my bag in a storage locker on the way here.”

 

“Stay with me,” Jen blurts out.

 

Lana looks up at her, her eyes brightening. “I don’t know,” she says, but she sounds hopeful. Maybe she’d been counting on this all along. “If you’re sure–” 

 

“I have space. A guest room,” Jen adds hastily, because they’re  _ friends _ , and friends don’t let a whiff of perfume when they’d hugged dictate their relationship. “We can catch up.” 

 

“You already said that,” Lana points out, but she’s grinning. “Just come out and say it. You missed me.” 

 

“Yeah,” Jen admits grudgingly. “Yeah, I did.” 

 

Lana links their arms together for a moment. “Missed you, too, Jenny. Now let’s split up so you can distract the fans while I make my getaway. I’ll meet you at your place.” 

 

“Don’t call me that,” Jen grumps at her. “Asshole.” 

 

“You’ll regret that when someone axe murders me at the storage locker!” Lana calls after her, and she’s laughing as she escapes the dressing room.

 

Jen shakes her head wryly. In the mirror, she can see the humiliatingly wide smile that has spread across her face.

 

* * *

 

Lana’s presence can only work so much magic. Jen is stiff as a board by the time she makes it outside, and it helps reminding herself that this is a performance, too.  _ You’re playing Jennifer Morrison, who just finished a successful performance and definitely does not know that Lana Parrilla was in the audience. You’re playing… _

 

She pokes her head out and smiles at the gaggle of girls who are waiting for her, and when one of them says, “I saw that Lana was here tonight. Did she like the play?”, Jen can look perplexed. 

 

“Lana Del Rey?” she says, and then– “ _ Oh _ ! Lana Parrilla!” A distant memory, not a vital presence in her life. She frowns. “I didn’t see her.” It’ll be another rumor to fly across the fanbase, Lana going to see Jen’s play without even dropping in backstage to say hello. Another proof that they hate each other. People will even question that photo, which is dubious at best. 

 

The way it has to be. 

 

She makes a getaway, inhaling and exhaling more easily now that she’s found a way to fix this, and she takes a cab back to her apartment, head drifting back as post-performance exhaustion begins to set in.

 

She’s wide awake when she finally steps out of the cab and sees Lana chatting up her doorman. She turns, her smile blinding, and Jen wraps her in another hug before she can think about why. Lana doesn’t question it, and they head up to Jen’s apartment together.

 

Lana has an odd look on her face in the elevator, and Jen says, “What is it?” 

 

“Just…look at us,” Lana says, gesturing at them both. “Having a real, healthy relationship. Who’d have thought?” 

 

“Not me,” Jen admits, but it feels good to know it, to believe that they’re actually doing something right together. This– a weekend together where there are no outside expectations, no romantic complications– this is good for them both, and there’s something very freeing about knowing that she  _ can  _ be good for Lana.

 

She finds leftover takeout in her fridge and offers it to Lana, and Lana talks between bites, going through the play with a precision that she usually reserves for her own acting. She points out moments when she’d been particularly impressed, gives thoughtful suggestions, and Jen glows until Lana compliments her “sensual body language” in the big friendship scene in the second act. 

 

“Shut up,” she says, already-flushed cheeks flushing some more. “That was a friendly scene.” 

 

Lana smirks. “Mm-hm.” Jen sticks her fingers into her glass of water and flicks droplets at her, and Lana ducks. “You know,” she says when she emerges from the table. “The way you inhabit a character when you’re happy with her is really something to behold. I know you’re looking for directing jobs, but…” She shakes her head. “Losing you is a damn shame.” 

 

“Please,” Jen scoffs. “I’m not  _ you _ .” She shrugs. “I do…I do like acting. But I also…directing is telling the whole story, you know? You’re not just another cog in the machine. You take someone’s script and you transform it into  _ life _ , and the message you get to pass on is yours–” Lana is watching her, eyes warm enough that Jen’s cheeks redden again. “What?” 

 

Lana swallows. “I’m done,” she decides.

 

Somehow, Lana winds up on the couch after they clear the table, fingers running through the dog’s fur as she says, “So you like that kind of control. What do you do with me?” The words are innocent, playful, but they still send a prickle of want up Jen’s spine.

 

And it’s not like she hasn’t thought about  _ that  _ before, even while she’d worked on her own script. Having an actress like Lana around means that her presence overwhelms everything, and it had been impossible to imagine her lead as anyone but Lana.

 

Instead of telling Lana  _ that _ – “I put you in a drama,” she says, stretching out on the floor beside her. “The kind where you’re the villain all along but don’t know it. Not many people can sell that, but you’re so versatile–” 

 

“As you know well.” Lana winks, and Jen lets out a choked little laugh instead of flushing again.

 

“Not like  _ that _ . You know what I mean.” 

 

Lana smiles, her eyes suddenly guarded. “So a murder drama, huh? No role for me in your script?” 

 

Jen winces, caught. “No. Definitely not,” she lies.

 

“Oh.” Lana sounds oddly hurt, and Jen sits, leaning back on her arms to stare directly at her.

 

“No,” she rushes to clarify. “That’s not what I… You’d be  _ amazing _ . But you’re above some amateur screenplay.” She knows the importance of marketing herself more than anyone. Starring in a nothing screenplay that’s going nowhere would be a message to casting agents that she’s both those things. “You would need something much bigger.

 

Lana stares down at her for a moment, her brow furrowing. “Not an amateur screenplay,” she says. “Yours. And it was good. The kind of complex role I’d love to tackle.” 

 

Jen catches her gaze, unable to look away. “I didn’t know you’d actually read it. I thought you were…were holding onto it as blackmail material.” She laughs, her heart flipping. 

 

“I loved it,” Lana says, and her eyes are regretful, suddenly. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before. So many complex characters…I don’t even know if I could do them justice.” 

 

Jen laughs again, feeling small and uncertain suddenly. “You could play any role if I gave you a few weeks to prepare.” She bites her lip. “When we used to watch the show together in the early seasons…it was incredible. You’d be sitting next to me and I’d  _ know  _ it, but I’d still have to struggle to find you in the Evil Queen. Sometimes, I wouldn’t find you at all.” 

 

“I got lucky,” Lana murmurs. “That kind of role would bring out the best in anyone.” Jen sighs. It’s small and barely audible and there’s  _ no  _ reason for it to sound envious, but Lana still twists to stare at her. 

 

“What?” Jen says defensively. “It’s a good role. So was Emma.” For a time, anyway. She hasn’t thought about Dark Swan in months, and she isn’t going to– she  _ can’t _ think about it again, not now when she’s happy and there are no shadows in this room.

 

Lana drawls, delight in her eyes, “You want to be her, don’t you? You can’t have her.” 

 

“You can’t have Emma,” Jen shoots back. 

 

“I’ve had her dozens of times,” Lana says, and the smile that curls the edges of her lips is dangerously attractive. “In those boots, with that jacket…without that jacket…” Her eyes are distant for a moment, unbearably pleased, before she snaps out of it. “Show me,” she says.

 

“What?” 

 

“Do a line.” Lana beams at her from behind the traitorously content dog. “Go ahead.  _ I shall destroy your happiness if it is the last thing I do _ .” 

 

Jen rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she says, and she inhales for a moment, thinking back to the pilot. It’s the rare episode that she still remembers, after so many years and so many episodes, and she clears her throat, finding the headspace of an evil queen, victorious in her vengeance. “ _ I shall destroy your happiness if it is the last thing I do _ ,” she announces, and Lana laughs, eyes glittering with delight.

 

“You’re  _ good _ ,” she says. “You were wasted on a protagonist.” She shakes her head. “No, never wasted. But…” Lana bites her lip, the implication clear.

 

Oh, so tonight  _ is  _ going to be a Dark Swan kind of night. “I couldn’t carry the role,” she says dully. “The audience didn’t enjoy me as a villain.” 

 

“I did,” Lana says, and she reaches out to grasp Jen’s shoulder. “You scared  _ me  _ a few times there. It was like acting with a stranger. You were stunning.” 

 

“Eddy said–” 

 

“ _ Fuck  _ Eddy,” Lana snarls, her eyes dark and angry. “They did wrong by you. They– what?” she barks out, her voice still harsh as she stares at the smile on Jen’s face. 

 

Jen shakes her head. “No. It’s just…” She sits up, suddenly antsy at the confession. But they’re  _ friends  _ now, and part of that is being comfortable enough to admit… “I always wanted to be one of those people,” she mumbles.

 

“People?” Lana echoes. “Which people?” 

 

“The ones you’d…pretty much murder to protect.” She laughs self-consciously. “You know, Jared, Bex, even Josh and Ginny on a good day–” 

 

“Jen,” Lana says slowly, and she reaches out for Jen, tugs her up onto the couch so she can look at her directly. “Did you really think you weren’t?”

 

Her eyes are dead serious, so much care swimming in them that Jen can’t respond to it, and Jen doesn’t know  _ how _ – 

 

They’d liked each other, then hated each other. They’d been two people who’d been too attracted to each other from the start and known it, and it had been a source of frustration for each. They’d been a mess of emotion and complication and never,  _ never _ until that one night near the end, had Jen believed that Lana had cared. “I don’t know,” Jen whispers. “You’re…you know, you’re kind of beyond me. Us. All of this. You had an entire cast and crew who adored you, and I was…” Just another person caught helplessly in Lana’s orbit, lost and with no desire to be found again. “I was…” she starts again, leaning back against the couch. Her eyes are moist for no reason at all, and she blinks away the tears before they can fall.

 

Lana touches her cheek, stroking it to her jawline and down her neck. “Sometimes I think about those early years,” she says. “I think…I think maybe we should have been friends first.” 

 

“We would have trusted each other more,” Jen murmurs in agreement. “We could have…” It’s useless to dwell on what could have been, where they might have gone if they’d only… 

 

It’s useless.

 

“We could have been everything,” Lana breathes thickly, and there are tears glimmering in her eyes. 

 

Jen catches them on one curved knuckle, leaning in close to brush the tears away as they fall. “But we made it,” she says hoarsely. “Do you trust me now?” 

 

“I don’t know,” Lana whispers, and Jen leans to her and brushes her lips against Lana’s, soft and easily rejected. Lana clasps her cheeks, cradles Jen’s face in her hands, and she moves forward fluidly, the dog escaping as Lana presses Jen down into the couch. “Do you trust me?” 

 

Jen can only close her eyes, arching beneath Lana as she’s divested of her clothing, and Lana kisses her throat above her collarbone, dots kisses along her breasts and to her abdomen, and Jen doesn’t know. Jen doesn’t know who she trusts anymore, but she knows, as she always has, that in  _ this  _ she can trust Lana.

 

Lana slides off of her, holds out a silent hand and leads Jen into her own bedroom. “I would have brought you flowers,” she says in the dark, light shining in through the windows from the streets far below. “Red carnations. Would’ve made you blush. But we couldn’t have anyone see that, could we?” She pushes Jen onto the bed, and Jen falls freely, lands spread-eagled as Lana crawls up her. Jen can feel her heart pounding, can feel Lana’s hands pressing down on her wrists so she can’t move, and she rears up and falls again as Lana leans back. “Stay,” Lana orders her, and Jen lies still, throbbing and aching for contact.

 

The first touch of Lana’s tongue against her clit elicits a long, strained groan from somewhere deep within her. She bucks up, needy and starved for this, and Lana kisses her where she feels it most, tongue darting out to explore. “Missed this,” Lana gasps, and then she’s gone, Jen writhing in agony as she calls out her name.

 

She’s back moments later, licking her up and down like a cat until Jen’s on the edge again, and Lana tweaks her breast and hovers again, dragging her teeth along Jen’s inner thigh. The torment doesn’t stop until Jen’s spitting out a desperate curse and yanking hard on Lana’s hair, burying her between Jen’s legs, and Lana slides a finger somewhere south of where it should be and Jen comes in a rush, Lana lapping it up and then crawling back up Jen’s body to kiss her. 

 

Jen grasps her– she’s naked, she’d gotten undressed during the teasing and she looks breathtaking, curved and dark-haired and dark-eyed– and Lana says again, “Do you trust me?” and Jen nods desperately as Lana lowers herself onto Jen’s mouth. 

 

* * *

 

They sleep after too little time together, wrapped around each other on silk sheets that are going to need a thorough washing sometime soon. Jen sleeps better than she has in a long time, and waking up next to Lana is– unthinkable, and somehow more natural than anything else in her existence. 

 

They don’t talk about what this means. Lana smiles sleepily and kisses Jen’s nose and Jen sits up and lifts Lana onto her lap, both of them wrapped in each other despite morning breath and the fact that they’d screwed up a whole lot of plans in one night. It’s probably better not to talk about what it means, because it’s  _ good  _ and Jen never, ever wants to give this up.

 

They spend too long in the tub, then too long on breakfast, Lana in one of Jen’s shirts that distracts them both far too much to manage a simple omelette. They channel surf through the morning news while curled up together on the couch, and then Lana finds whipped cream in the fridge and that’s another hour in the bedroom, both of them taking turns blindfolded with one of Jen’s ties. 

 

And again, there’s a sense of euphoria with every moment together, every moment where they feel…better. Different than before.  _ I think maybe we should have been friends first _ . Jen thinks about it late at night after she’s left to and returned from her show, eyes wide open as Lana curls against her, and she can feel the regrets of six wasted years bearing down on her. 

 

“Stop thinking so hard up there,” Lana says sleepily, kissing her shoulder. “Your head’s going to pop off one of these days.”

 

“I don’t think that’s–” 

 

“I told you to stop thinking,” Lana reproves her, and Jen laughs despite herself. Lana pulls back for a moment, meeting Jen’s eyes. “Come out with me tomorrow. Where do you like to spend your days when you aren’t onstage?” 

 

Jen shrugs. “I jog in Central Park a lot, I guess.” She loves New York, loves the ease with which she can disappear in public. There are still tourists celebrity-hunting here, but they aren’t quite as prevalent or intrusive in the city, and she finds a certain privacy in the crowd.

 

But the two of them going out– not just Jen alone but Jen with her costar– they’ll be seen. They’re doubly as conspicuous like this, and Jen swallows and thinks of  _ do you trust me? _

 

So they go together, jogging early and then buying some food that they eat under an outcropping of rock deep in the park. No one is there. No one has noticed them, and Jen even checks Twitter surreptitiously to be sure that they haven’t been seen. She exhales, leaning back against the rock, and Lana rests her head against Jen’s shoulder and eats her panini in silence.

 

When they’re done, Jen glances around again, seeing absolutely no one around, and daringly presses her lips to Lana’s. Lana closes her eyes, the sun glowing on her face and a secret smile on her lips; and Jen has worked hard on not being a hopeless romantic anymore, but she can’t help but think  _ beautiful _ . 

 

There had been plenty of times when they’d been hooking up in trailers and Jen hadn’t understood how Lana–  _ Lana _ , who’d been the darling of everyone on set in a way that she’d never mastered– had ever chosen her, even for just that, even when Jen had been positive that she couldn’t be the only one. For  _ this _ –

 

She gulps in a breath and runs her fingers through Lana’s hair, her eyes back on the empty scene around them, and she thinks that she might be very content, if this were their forever.

 

But forever can only last so long. She has a performance tonight and Lana has to get back to Vancouver, and they’re running late enough that they take the train back to Jen’s place to pack Lana up. Jen sits up against Lana, savoring the contact before she broaches the topic. “So my play ends in a few weeks,” she says. “I’ve been thinking about heading back to LA for a while to scope out directing gigs.” 

 

It’s almost anxious, and Lana twists to face her, her eyes shining. “That sounds like…a logical next step,” she offers.

 

“I thought so, too.” Jen licks her lips nervously as the train stops and starts again. “I don’t–” 

 

“ _ Jmo _ ?” Her whole body prickles at once from the exclamation, seizes up, and she stops breathing as she turns and sees a girl. She isn’t more than twenty, a bag slung over her shoulder, and there’s a hook with a ring on it on the back of her phone case. “Lana. Oh my god,” the girl says, gaping wide-eyed at both of them. She shakes her head as though to snap out of it. “Sorry. I just– I take this route every day, and I never  _ dreamed _ – I’m a huge fan,” she says, beaming at them. “Emma’s, like, my spirit animal. Would it be okay if I got a picture?” 

 

Jen doesn’t answer, her throat stopped with panic, and Lana smiles at the girl and says the only thing they can. “Of course. Here, give me your phone and I’ll do yours with Jennifer.” The girl nods, Lana deftly turning one horror show of a picture into two, and Lana gets up so the girl can sit beside Jen on the seat.

 

She takes a few minutes to snap the picture, laughing as she botches it too many times. “I’m sorry, I’m a technological mess. Oh! It’s our stop.” She snaps a last picture, Jen’s rictus grin automatic, and says, “I’m so sorry. You’ll get one with me next time.” She winks at the girl and seizes Jen’s hand, yanking her up and out the door of the subway car. Jen pulls her hand away, stumbling after Lana up the stairs and back to her building.

 

She’s shaking by the time they make it inside, and she staggers to the kitchen and vomits into the garbage. Lana rolls her eyes. “Come on, Jen. It was a Hook girl. She’s never even going to admit that we were in the same place at the same time. Stop being so dramatic.” 

 

There’s no compassion in her voice. Maybe a hint of hurt, which is  _ so _ – “Your reflection in the window,” Jen bites out. “Word of mouth. Rumors. I– oh, god.” She wants to throw up again, but there’s nothing left in her. She drinks instead, yanks out a bottle of wine from the fridge and pours herself a glass. “How could I be so  _ stupid _ ? What was I  _ thinking _ , riding the train with–” 

 

“You’re being ridiculous,” Lana says, and she isn’t rolling her eyes anymore. “You’re  _ always  _ ridiculous about this. You’re not even on the show anymore– how am I supposed to ruin your brand  _ now _ ?”

 

“You don’t understand,” Jen says, swallowing the wine and pouring more. “You don’t understand how–” 

 

“That’s right,” Lana says. Her voice is cool now, her eyes dark and flashing. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand how it’s been seven years of this and you’re still treating me like some dirty little secret. Do you realize how it looks when you pretend that only one colleague doesn’t exist? When you skip over my Instagram posts to like everyone else’s? When you’ll post selfies with everyone but me? If we’re supposed to have a healthy relationship now, how the hell are we going to do that when you–”

 

Jen shakes her head, her heart pounding a staccato beat against her ribs. “This is the only way I know how to–” 

 

“Why?” Lana demands. “You don’t want to come out, fine. No one wants to do that here. Why is it  _ so _ terrifying to be seen with me?” 

 

“Because everyone knows!” Jen snaps, and Lana arches an eyebrow, her lips pressed together so tightly that they’re turning white. Jen gulps down more wine. “Everyone– have you  _ seen _ me around you? I’ve seen the pictures– the speculation that follows– a thousand people talking about how I’m in  _ love _ , cataloguing the shade of my cheeks and where my eyes are and how I laugh around you. The whole Internet knows I’m in love with you and I can’t  _ hide  _ it when I’m around you, so forgive me if I want some  _ privacy _ –” She stops abruptly, about five minutes too late. “I have to go,” she says, grabbing her bag as Lana stares at her, lips parted and eyes hard. “I have– I have a performance– I have–”

 

Lana scoffs. It’s mocking enough to have Jen jolting from the haze she’s in and twisting around to stare at her. Lana’s eyes are glinting hard, angry, and Jen doesn’t understand. “You’re full of it,” Lana spits out. “In love? That’s what you’re going with? That you’re  _ in love  _ with me?” She laughs, high and mocking, before her eyes darken again. “A few good fucks doesn’t make it love.” 

 

Jen swallows, the hard, rebellious retort lurking somewhere where it won’t emerge. “Fine. Okay. I’ve got to go.” 

 

“For  _ one thing _ ,” Lana says furiously, and  _ oh _ , they’re not done. “If you were actually in love with me, you wouldn’t have run like a coward when I told you how I felt about you.” She’s pacing now, and she’s burning hot, angry and uncontrolled. “I told you I wanted something real and you left the  _ country _ . Don’t play games with me. Don’t you  _ dare _ –” 

 

Jen reaches for her and Lana folds into her arms, kissing her angrily, desperately, backing her against the counters hard enough that Jen can feel her back pressing uncomfortably into them. She doesn’t care. She’s still shaking, and she doesn’t know if it’s from the encounter with the fan or from her admission or from Lana shooting down her admission, but Lana’s in her arms, her eyes dark and hungry and furious, and Jen can only think of that.

 

She misses the performance that night, calls as soon as she can and is as apologetic as she can manage while Lana rocks on top of her, her own phone in hand as she reschedules her flight to the morning. They move with fire, grinding into each other and never quite making it to a bed.

 

Jen falls back onto it when they’re nearly done, scrambling back to lean against the headboard as Lana crawls across the bed, settling on her lap and sliding her hands into Jen’s hair. “Don’t lie to me again,” she hisses, her hands punishingly tight as she crouches over Jen. She’s still strapped into the– Jen feels it brushing against her as Lana moves, and her mouth goes dry.

 

Jen glares up at her, supremely pissed. “I wasn’t lying. You think I wanted this? It’s been  _ years _ and I–” 

 

“Shut up,” Lana growls, mounting her, and Jen throws her head back against the headboard as Lana rocks against her, cups Lana’s ass and presses her in deeper. Lana groans, rocking harder, and Jen comes hard, letting out a strangled cry as she slumps. 

 

They don’t stop for a long time, and it’s angry and demanding and Jen winds up on top more than once, pinning Lana to the bed and watching as Lana’s eyes dilate in response. “You were never going to leave  _ him  _ for me, either,” she says, pressing a hand to Lana’s mouth before Lana can argue. Lana bites her palm, eyes flashing. “You were full of shit. You just wanted an excuse to go, and I was there. You don’t even  _ like  _ me.” 

 

“I really don’t,” Lana says when she shoves her back. “You’re a self-righteous coward who’d rather play the victim than  _ try _ , and I’m not–” She’s breathing hard, Jen’s comforter twisted around her. “I don’t know  _ why  _ I have these feelings for  _ you _ . Anyone else in the  _ universe  _ would have been more convenient.” They’re back to where they’d been before this odd little entr'acte from the main story, before they’d tried at something that might have been healthy and failed. 

 

It’s not fair that it hurts now, that this should be their normal but it suddenly leaves Jen feeling as though she can’t breathe. She’s trembling and  _ these feelings _ – what is that supposed to  _ mean _ . Why is Lana– why are there tears in the corners of her eyes when this means nothing. Why can’t she stop heaving sharp little breaths that might have sounded like sobs if they both don’t know better than that. 

 

Lana isn’t wrong. About the feelings, probably, and certainly about Jen’s feelings– she’s been in love with Lana since the first time they’d ever kissed, and every single interaction that had followed had been damning. She hadn’t meant to admit that, not ever. 

 

But Lana isn’t wrong about Jen otherwise, and that’s why it burns the most. Somewhere between avoiding each other and resenting each other, they’d managed to get each other’s number better than anyone else out there. They  _ know  _ each other in all their glorious flaws, and they’ve never been very good at getting past them.

 

“Find someone more convenient, then,” Jen says blankly, and she rolls off her bed, yanks on a t-shirt and stands. It’s cold in the apartment. She doesn’t know how she hasn’t noticed it before. She doesn’t know how she hasn’t noticed…a lot of things… before. 

 

Lana is still wrapped in blankets, still warm, but she shivers suddenly. “I don’t  _ want  _ to,” she says, the bite gone from her voice. And that’s it, really. There might be better people out there for them– people who are better suited to them, people who might make sense in that dull, reasonable way. That’s all Jen’s ever hoped for. 

 

And it’s never once been what she wants. “You have to,” Jen says, her voice rough. “We’re going to tear each other to shreds if…” She can’t finish, can’t even bring up the words of something permanent.

 

Lana stares at her. Jen stares back, her fingers pressing into her sides, nails biting at the skin of her thighs. They don’t move, both waiting as though a magical solution might suddenly appear.

 

It’s never been so easy. 


End file.
